


Fleeting Thoughts, Like Herring

by Calacious



Category: General Hospital
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Christmas, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Gift Fic, Implied/Referenced Torture, Spoilers, Vague bad guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 05:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calacious/pseuds/Calacious
Summary: Spinelli is taken, and held captive. He doesn't know what the man who has taken him wants. He just knows that everything hurts.





	Fleeting Thoughts, Like Herring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [suerum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suerum/gifts).



> Mele Kalikimaka! I hope that you have a wonderful Christmas.

Spinelli took one last look around Jason's new abode, and, with a heavy sigh, left, shutting the door behind him. With just a few weeks before Christmas, he didn't know how he was going to be able to enjoy the festivities with the enormity of what he'd unwittingly done to Jason weighing heavily on his heart and mind.

He was happy that the real Jason was back -- he'd missed the man keenly -- but still felt the sting of guilt in his actions, though there'd been absolutely no malice in them, in identifying another man as his beloved mentor. A man who was now married to Fair Samantha in the real Jason's, Stone Cold’s, stead.

He was so engrossed in his ruminations and self-castigation, that he never even saw what hit him. One moment, he was reproving himself for his unintentional actions, and the next, he was waking in a dark, cold place, and had a steel drum band playing a raucous tune in his head.

He tried to lift his hands, but found that his arms were firmly attached to something. Blinking away his double vision, the reason for the immobility of his hands swam into focus -- duct tape. Upon further exploration, he found that duct tape had been wound about his torso, thighs and legs, and that he'd been secured to a steel chair, which had been screwed into the cement floor of what appeared to be a dank cellar.

There was a single window in the cellar. It was too small to be a viable mode of escape (provided that Spinelli could free himself of the duct tape while the steel drums were pounding away) and positioned so high up that Spinelli would never be able to reach it without some kind of aid.

There was light leaking from the small, dingy window, but there wasn't really enough of it for him to be able to tell what time it might be, and, on top of that, his eyes were still not fully cooperating. Everything kept going in and out of focus, making him feel nauseated and dizzy.

Shivering violently, Spinelli swallowed a mouthful of bile and tried to rack his brain for the reason for his current predicament.  _ Was there someone he had recently run afoul of? Had Jason finally come to his senses and realized that Spinelli had essentially stolen his life and gifted it to his twin brother and decided to teach him a lesson? _

It hurt to think, and Spinelli bit his lip to keep his stomach from spilling out onto the concrete. The rancid stench, should he be unsuccessful, would soon become unbearable, and he didn't know how long whoever it was who'd taken him and confined him to a steel chair in a chilly cellar, was planning on keeping him there.

Head killing him, and eyes refusing to cooperate, Spinelli concentrated solely on breathing to keep the nausea at bay.  _ Breathe in, out, in, out, in, hold it, out, wait, ignore the pounding of my head, breathe in, and out... _

Unable to keep his drooping eyes open, or stop the drumming in his head, Spinelli let the rhythm of his breathing take over all conscious thought, and focused solely on that until he fell into a state of semi-awareness. The cold seeped into his bones, made his fingers and toes cease to have feeling, and finally stole all conscious thought from him as he fell into a fitful sleep.

Images of fire, shifting shadows that danced and cavorted as they darted around him and touched him with ice cold daggers that left him feeling weak and pained, and the hard, accusing stare of steel blue eyes, assailed him. Juxtaposed against the fuzzy image of a face that loomed before him which Spinelli didn't recognize, Spinelli felt as though he was in a sub-level of Hell.

The face spoke to him, but Spinelli could not understand a word that it was saying. It grew horns, fire darted out of its black eyes, and its hands grew sharp, cutting claws that bit into his skin, and made him bleed, and cry out in pain.

"I'm sorry," Spinelli breathed the words of apology out, panting.

He was apologizing for the colossal mix-up he'd orchestrated, the fact that he hadn't recognized right away that the false Jason wasn't real, and that his Jason, the Jason he'd known for a great number of years, was lost and in need of finding. If anyone should have known that the Jason who had returned to Port Charles wasn't their Jason, it should have been him, and he should have known it sooner than he had.

The steel drumming in his head came to a maddening crescendo of shooting pain and sickening pounding. He was certain that his head was about to explode, and almost wanted it to, if only to end the incessant pain.

The face shouted something, ratcheting the pain in his head, and Spinelli opened his mouth and vomited something putrid. It slithered down his chin, his neck, all down his front, and landed with a splat on his lap and the cracked concrete floor of his prison.

There was pain, the sensation and cloying stench of burning flesh, and then, nothing. Spinelli was floating, his head a bulbous, throbbing anchor tying him to his unresponsive body. 

Thoughts entered and fled his mind like herring from a predator. He couldn't capture and hold onto a single one of them. It was maddening, and yet, he was benumbed, and he had the feeling that these thoughts, whatever they were, didn't matter. All that mattered were the breaths that he was taking and releasing, the knowledge that, finally, Jason was home, where he belonged and his twin brother could (hopefully) get his own life back, that justice would eventually prevail.

He felt laughter bubble up in his chest and spit it out like blood. It was wet and uncomfortable where it had mixed with the bile on his chin.

The face didn't smile. There was no laughter when the claws bit into his flesh. He closed his eyes, determined not to die a coward, not to let death claim him without a fight, though he had no idea how to fight without his legs and arms, without the cooperation of his fleeting thoughts. If only they were like herring gathered together to become a cohesive, intimidatory whole, then maybe he'd have a chance against whoever had taken him.

Spinelli drifted in and out of consciousness for hours that bled into days of endless torture orchestrated by the angry face, or the quickening shadows. Warbled sound, like speech, reached his ears from time to time, sometimes it was angry, others, cajoling, but he couldn't catch onto what was being said, couldn't stop apologizing to Stone Cold, or spitting out mouthfuls of blood and bile.

Soon, his mind refused to completely rouse to consciousness, and he wafted along like an anchor-less tugboat tossed about by an angry sea. Bombarded by sinister images, Spinelli wavered on the very edge of life itself.

Light flashed and there was thunder. The walls shook. The ceiling rained down on his head in chunks of powdered cement, and coated him in chalky grey sediment. The face fell, bloodied, and Spinelli wondered what had happened, when he'd opened his eyes, when his mind had decided to kick in.

Hands were on him, and he attempted to protest, his lips dry from lack of water and the cold of the cellar, refused to obey what his scattered brain was attempting to communicate. He shivered and blinked, and wondered where he'd seen the blue eyes that were boring into his before. They were familiar in the same way that a ghost is familiar. He shuddered.

The eyes' lips were moving, and Spinelli concentrated on them, dumbfounded, and at a loss when he still could not hear what was being said though the lips weren't those of the tormenting face. They were different. Familiar. Lips that he'd heard countless words from before.

"Stone Cold?" Spinelli spoke soundlessly and the lips smiled and then the hands that had worked frantically to free him from his sticky bonds were on either side of his face, holding him. They were warm, comforting, safe.

"I've got you now, Spinelli, you're safe," Jason said, and this time Spinelli heard the words.

Jason pressed his lips to Spinelli's forehead, kissing him as a father would kiss a long lost child after reclaiming them, and then pulled him into a hug that warmed Spinelli like a toasty blanket. Spinelli's arms would not cooperate when he attempted to lift them to embrace his rescuer, but it didn't matter, because Jason lifted him then, and soon Spinelli was burying his face against Jason's chest to ward out the much too bright light of the sun.

"I've got you," Jason repeated, and safe within Jason's arms, Spinelli drifted off into an easy sleep.

His stay at the hospital was brief, only a day and a half before he was being carted home and tended to by an insistent Jason. He had a fairly severe concussion, and had been drugged at one point, but there was no swelling of the brain, and the drugs had run their course. The burns that peppered his arms and stomach ranged from first to second degree, and of the numerous cuts along his face, arms and torso, only one of them needed stitches -- the one that ran from his shoulder to his elbow. He was dehydrated and malnourished, but a couple of IVs helped with that, and a week or two of rest, hydration and regular meals would help him make a full recovery.

"You don't have to do this," Spinelli said when Jason brought him a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup, crackers and a glass of water.

"I know," Jason said, sitting down beside Spinelli who was wrapped up in blankets on the couch.

Jason reached for the remote control, turned the TV on and flipped through the channels before landing on one of Spinelli's favorite movies. He settled back against the couch and threw an arm over Spinelli's shoulders.

"But, I want to," Jason said. The 'you're worth it,' was unspoken, but Spinelli heard it loud and clear in the way that Jason pressed a kiss to his hair and stretched out so that his feet were propped up on the coffee table and he was comfortable beside Spinelli.

Smiling, Spinelli blew on a spoonful of soup and leaned against Jason's side, relishing the warmth of his friend and mentor. He'd been so cold during his captivity that he'd never thought he'd ever be warm again. It was nice to be proven wrong on that.

When he'd asked Jason about who'd taken him, and how he'd found him, Jason had remained tight lipped, only saying that it was taken care of and that he didn't need to worry about it. Spinelli knew what that meant, and couldn't find it in himself to worry or care too much about the death of the man who'd made his life a living hell for six days.

"Thank you," Spinelli said, sighing in contentment as he glanced sidelong at the man who hadn't held a grudge against him, but who'd rescued him from certain death (more than once), and who was even now taking care of him, though he was a grown man and could take care of himself now (relatively well).

"Don't mention it," Jason said, looking pointedly at the remaining chicken noodle soup.

Taking the hint, Spinelli brought the bowl of soup into his lap, and rested back against Jason, curling his legs up beside him so that he could capitalize on the warmth being offered him. The soup was aromatic and delicious, and Jason was solid and warm beside him. The movie was one Spinelli always watched just before Christmas (which was only a few days away), and, if he was remembering correctly, a favorite of both of theirs.

Spinelli was sound asleep before the credits rolled. The bowl of soup (only a few bite-fulls left) was removed by deft hands before it crashed to the floor, and Spinelli was tucked securely within Jason's arms, and the blanket, toasty warm, dreaming of a very merry Christmas, indeed.

 


End file.
